


Stribluma

by simplyprologue



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Babies, F/M, Future Fic, Kid Fic, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 12:27:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7268212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyprologue/pseuds/simplyprologue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An anthology of the small adventures of the small Eden Kane with her parents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stribluma

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** Just moving these over from my tumblr to archive. Nothing to see here, move along...

She’s stopped counting on anything going to plan, resembling a plan, or having a plan at all. She never planned on the Ark failing, or Earth being inhabitable, or Grounders. Or on a deleterious AI, or on the nuclear reactors melting down. And she _certainly_ never planned on falling pregnant with a second child in her early forties, let alone falling pregnant with Marcus Kane’s child. 

Her first trimester was tiring, dominated by long periods of time trying to sleep interrupted by long intervals of vomiting. Once his initial panic subsided (which to his credit was within a few days of her discovery) Marcus earnestly spent those days holding back her hair, rubbing her back, and coaxing her to eat bland foods or take small sips of water. Her second trimester brings new and exciting trials, and Abby cannot decide if her pregnancy with Clarke was truly wretched (and she had somehow managed to block it out) or if this is just a gift of being an older mother. 

 _Everything_ is sore. 

From the round ligaments in her hips to her lower back to her shoulders and neck – it all _hurts._

Marcus finds her sitting in medical with her eyes closed, rubbing tense circles into her temples. “Again?” he asks lowly, and she doesn’t have to open her eyes to know about the thoughtful frown shaping his mouth. Humming, she rolls her head back and then from side to side, trying to loosen the tight muscles at the base of her skull. 

In her belly, baby protests her slumped over position and pushes up into her ribs. 

“Do you wanna lay down?” 

She sighs. “Maybe.” 

His hand comes to rest lightly on her neck, before he sweeps her hair away and over her shoulder. Thumbs resting just over the knot of bone at the top of her spine, he gently works circles into her skin. 

“That feels good,” she murmurs, dropping her head forward. “Just keep doing that for the next three months and maybe I’ll make it.” 

Shushing her, he leans down to brush a kiss on her cheek. His hands move to her shoulders, kneading the stiffness from her muscles. Where her hands are precise and deft and nimble, his are strong and forceful. Marcus has her melting back against him as his hands chart the tension in her back and then soothe it. Arching her back, she feels a shiver of release as her body begins to relax. Baby stretches out inside her, as much as they can at this point, pressing their feet out against her hand. 

“Is it getting any better?” he asks, moving down to massage her lower back, fingers digging into her lumbar. 

She sways back into him. “If you stop what you’re doing I will make you regret it.” Laughing lightly, he moves onto her thighs, uttering a quip under his breath about how she has more cause for regret right now than he does. “And miss having you catering to my every whim? Had I known you’d be easier to persuade if I was carrying your baby I would have done this ages ago.” 

“Madame Chancellor,” he answers, pretending to be aghast. 

His hands finish their task, one sliding back up to her neck to mollify her headache as the other rests over the round of her belly. As if recognizing their dad’s presence, baby kicks out against his palm. Abby rolls her shoulders, melting into him. Her back to his chest and her head under his chin; he’s the only thing currently keeping her upright. 

“Though you’re the one always with a plan working five steps ahead, trying to know what people are going to do before they do it, so maybe you’re the one who–”

Marcus laughs, more loudly, and kisses the top of her head. 

 

* * *

 

 

The citizens of the Ark seemed to have been born ready for lives of predestined bleakness; happy babies were a rarity. Women surviving on algae and protein powder and working twelve hour shifts did not produce enough breastmilk, or if they did, the prolonged malnutrition led to underweight, colicky infants who became disgruntled toddlers and then anxious children. Newborns, it seemed, escaped this misery for a few short hours – provided their mother survived birth and did not require more than the rationed amount of blood or anesthesia to overcome placental abruption or inverted uterus or postpartum hemorrhage. Misery followed the children of the Ark from their first days to their last, a daily reminder that _they_ were merely surviving. 

Even Clarke wasn’t spared, spending the first months of her life wailing endlessly, squirming in her arms without comfort as she spit up feeding after feeding. 

Eden, their Sprout, is the first child born to their people on the ground. At eight months old she’s made of smiles and dark bright eyes, shiny brown curls atop of her head that spill onto her forehead. “Ma. Ma. _Mamamamama_.”

A arm ringed by rolls of fat reaches up to pat her face. Abby catches Sprout’s hand and kisses it. “We’re almost there, honey. Then it’s bath time.” 

“ _Babababababa–”_

Marcus catches her eye. Their hands swing between them. It’s a fair summer day, the kind that begs to be spent outside. They endeavor to give Eden everything they ever dreamed of as children, shut behind grey hatches in metal rooms, learning lessons about the seasons and ancient summertime rituals, so foreign as _swimming_ and _fishing_ and _bonfires._ Abby skirts a hand down Sprout’s back where she’s bound to her chest by a gauzey cotton scarf. 

The stream is a twenty minute walk from camp, it’s water clear and currents gentle. They leave their clothes folded neatly on a rock, and wade in slowly. Babbling loudly, Sprout tries to leap from her mother’s arms and into the water. 

“No,” Marcus says, almost sing-song. “You don’t wanna do that.” 

She pouts, and he laughs. 

“Come here, Stribluma.” He holds out his arms, palms up just under the stream’s surface. Bending her knees so that they’re submerged to their chests, Abby lays Sprout on her stomach, careful to keep her daughter’s face above water. Her hand rests under her belly, and they both watch with amazement as Sprout’s chubby limbs kick and circle by instinct, moving her towards her father. “Atta girl.” 

Abby pulls a bar of tallow soap from a waterproof bag, and uses Sprout’s attempts to climb onto Marcus’ head and shoulders to wash the baby’s back and legs. rubbing the gentle lather down over her arms and legs. Letting her use his hair as rope for a moment, Marcus hugs her tightly to his chest, then dips her into the stream. She squeals. 

They sit in the shallows. 

“Fih-fih-fih,” Sprout chants. _Fish,_ maybe. But there aren’t any fish in this part of the stream, dammed by an old retaining brick wall on one end and their own recent construction on the other. It’s why the people of Arkadia use it so often, once the weather warms. 

“No, no fish,” Marcus says. “Auntie O took care of all the fish.” 

Abby snorts, thinking of the sixty foot water monster that Octavia took down during the food shortage last winter, dragging it back to camp on three sleds tied to the back of her horse to be salted and preserved. 

“Fih!” Sprout screams, slapping her hands down onto the water. 

Rubbing the soap between her hands, Abby makes enough suds to wash Sprout’s hair. She’s honestly never seen so much hair on a baby in her life or career as a medical professional. When she mentioned it to Marcus, he just shrugged and said one time his mother had mentioned he’d been born with a lot, too. 

Her daughter lets her wash her hair without protest, popping hard _b_ sounds with her lips as she curls up against her father’s chest. 

When they hold her up so just her face is above the water, she smiles widely, revealing her few teeth where they’re poking out of her gums. She tries to swim, flailing her limbs in the same instinctual pattern as Marcus combs his fingers through her hair to wash all the soap away. Then he looks up at Abby. “Your turn.” 

Sitting cross-legged in the silt, Abby holds the baby in her lap, rocking and playing with her as Marcus massages soap into the ends of her long waves. 

 

* * *

 

 

Some mornings their daughter is content to crawl into bed, snuggle between them, and let them all sleep for a few more hours. But four-year-olds are fickle creatures who wake up when dawn is just a suggestion on the horizon the morning that their parents were kept late the night before with a hunting expedition gone horribly wrong. 

Marcus awakes to a thirty pound weight landing on his chest. 

“Before sunrise, she’s your child,” Abby grumbles, voice sleep-slurred and raspy. 

He figures that waiting nervously while awaiting for word from the lost rover was less tiring than the six hours Abby spent hammering Monty’s ankle back together, and scoops their wriggling toddler up into his arms as he rolls out of bed. “Come along, Sprout. Momma needs her beauty sleep.” 

“Excuse you, Marcus. I am gorgeous,” she retorts before flopping face first into her pillow and pulling the coverlets up over her head. 

Escaping his tired grasp, the Sprout wiggles to the floor and bounds back to their bed. She crawls across the mattress, pulling the blankets back to reveal Abby’s head, and pets her hair. “Mommy pretty.” 

Her bleary eyes open for a moment, just long enough to tap their daughter on the end of her tiny Patrician nose. 

“Thank you, baby girl.” 

Marcus bundles their little sapling into her winter furs and wool-lined deerskin shoes, tucks her sleep-tossed curls into her knitted hat and wraps her neck in a thick scarf so long that the ends reach her ankles. She insists on putting on her mittens herself. Then he shrugs into his own coat and cold weather things, stepping into his boots without bothering to lace them all the way up before taking her by the hand and stepping out into the hallway. 

“Where to?” he asks, swinging her up onto his shoulders. 

“Bacon!” 

He doesn’t bother telling her that _bacon_ is not exactly a place. Such nuance is lost on small children. And besides, the culinary techs are always more than willing to sneak Arkadia’s first child (in more way than one) anything that she wants, even if breakfast isn’t for another hour. 

Happy and appeased by a handful of bacon (and a corn muffin, which now only exists as a trail of yellowish crumbs on her scarf) the sprout sits quietly atop him as he decides to do a surprise inspection of the night watch guards at the wall, although any attempt at sneaking up on them is blown by Sprout squealing with a mouthful of salted pork before shouting, “AUNTIE HARPER!” at full volume. 

She follows that with a sheepish wave once she notices ten guards in black body armor looking at her. 

Marcus settles her back down onto the snow-covered ground, watching as she shoves the rest of her food into her mouth before running off towards Harper and Nate as fast as her short legs will carry her. He should be more concerned with how easily Arkadia security will step away from their tasks to build a snowman – such a novelty, still, and to be honest Marcus can’t fault them – with a child. 

But really, who can say no to free babysitting when you’re running on a hundred minutes of sleep? 

 

* * *

 

He’s had the damn thing for almost four years. Now it comes in more white than black, threatening to become silver entirely, and while he’s weathered the past few summers by keeping it trim now he’s just decided to shave it off entirely. Which presents its own set of circumstances – in her short life, his daughter has never seen him clean shaven. 

Marcus steals her away from Octavia’s not-so-secret daily weapons training that she thinks they doesn’t know about (but one does not complain when someone volunteers to babysit your three year old and returns her in roughly the same shape in which she was given, even if Bellamy often turns up bruised or with a roughed-up knee cap) and throws her up over his shoulders. 

Tiny hands grab at his hair for purchase as she squeals and squirms. “Daddy! Auntie O was gonna woods walk ‘day!” 

“You’re coming with me instead, sprout.” 

She heaves a dramatic sigh reminiscent of her older sister, crossing her arms and leaning down to rest her forearms and chin atop his head – the upside of Octavia’s warrior lessons is that the sprout has an impeccable sense of balance for a toddler. 

“Kay.” 

“Just for a little bit,” Marcus says, squeezing her chubby little calves. “I need you to do something with me.” 

The sprout is entirely confused by the presence of a razor in their bathroom. She’s seen her mother’s scalpels and forceps and her aunt-by-choice’s knives and swords, of course, and Clarke’s switchblade. But neither he nor Abby have bothered with shaving in a long time. 

“Nontu?” 

(Whether English or Trigedasleng will come out of her mouth at any given time is, at this point, always a toss up.) 

“Sha?” He lathers up his face with the shaving bar, turning on the tap to build the soap up into a cream. “Sen daun, yongon.” 

Her little lip wobbles into a pout, and she reaches her arms towards him. “Up.” 

With a practiced bend, he swoops her up into his arms and then settles her on top of the counter. She chews on the end of one of her braids, watching him thoughtfully as he begins removing his beard in small careful strokes of the straight razor against this cheek. As more and more skin is revealed, her soft brown eyes grow more and more curious. 

“Sprout?” he asks with a wry grin. 

Her brows quirk together, her expression becoming very serious. “Daddy, you have a face,” she proclaims, like a revelation. 

Marcus hears a burst of laughter from the doorway, and turns to see Abby leaning her head against the hatch, her features sliding from tender affection to pure humor. 

“I know, honey, I’d almost forgotten it myself,” she says. 

The sprout giggles, pleased with herself. 

 

* * *

 

 

All of Polis knows when a delegation of the Sky People are visiting the city. If their clothes and unadorned hair didn’t give them away, then the moment they opened their mouths the language would. And everyone in Polis knows that the only Skaikru child old enough to talk is Senrona Clarke’s young sister – and their Heda’s goddaughter.

A young girl dressed in black suede and burgundy velvet isn’t out of place in the market. Little Stribluma speaks the Trigedasleng better than most of her kru, flitting through the marketplace from stall to stall, her thick dark hair a flurry around her face – her difference is marked only by her heavily accented affect. In Arkadia all she has to do is climb trees and attend to her lessons. But in Polis, she is allowed to keep her thin blunted sword at her side and go anywhere she’d like, see flowers from the west and fabrics from the south and carvings from the north, eat food that isn’t the plain Arkadian fare.

The people of Polis know her – please Senrona or please Stribluma, please Heda.

In Sprout’s hands is a bouquet of ivory peonies, traded at a loss for the seller for a leather bracelet she had carved the Skaikru triskelion into.

Then she notices the ribbon seller.

The woman – not much older than Clarke – sits with her two young daughters cutting and hemming ribbons out of a bolt of white gossamer. Sprout’s never seen anything like it before. Her life is grey cotton and rough homespun and tanned leather. Curious, she steps up to the stall, looking at the wisps of delicate shimmering fabric.

 _“They’re lovely,”_ she says in Trigedasleng.

The woman looks up, but does not pause from her work. Her hands continue hemming the strips of gossamer into ribbon. _“If you allow me to braid your beautiful hair, Stribluma, I would be glad to trade you a ribbon.”_

Sprout considers the woman’s smiling face. _“And I’ll give you three flowers.”_

The woman nods, and extends her hand, encouraging her to step around to the back of the stall and sit on a pallet covered in cotton batting. Sprout’s hair is thick, almost black. In the sun it blazes almost copper, a stream of dark fire that hangs in soft waves to her waist. The woman parts it with a well-worn comb made from the jaw of a bovine, and begins to weave her hair into braided sections bolstered by her new ribbons.

Her hair becomes a crown of braids that zigzags across her head to a mass of roped hair balanced into an intricate bun. In the center, the woman places the smallest peony in the bouquet, wrapping the stem through the ribbon to secure it.

 _“Thank you,”_ Sprout says, a smile splitting her face to reveal a mouth with missing teeth. She holds a spotted mirror in front of her. _“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”_

She bounds off again, to trade more of her flowers for goods. She returns to the citadel with a mouthful of powdered fried dough, eating it complacently as the guards part for her – she is too young to understand her own place in the world, that these guards do not part for everyone, that only the very select are allowed to walk onto the elevator and ask to be taken to the fiftieth floor. Polis is simply where she can be free and unhindered by Arkadia’s walls and the ancient hull of a steel civilization that seems like a myth to her – she is a child of the ground, through and through, and she loves the capital city of the grounders.

It loves her back.

Lexa is taking private audiences, and so Sprout waits, munching on the sweets she purchased. Then, once the doors to the throne room opens, she runs in, climbing up onto her godmother’s lap to tell her about all about the people she met today, and the kind woman who braided her hair and gave her beautiful ribbons.

Then she spends the afternoon sitting at Lexa’s right hand as she listens to reports and disputes from her subjects.

The next day, she sits in Clarke’s bedroom as she’s fitted for a dress with an overlay of white gossamer.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
